The Big Sky Read Online Free PDF Page B

men walking duckfooted with their bellies out, the women snugged up at the waist like a sack with a rope around it. There was a man had got himself a knock, with the towel wrapped around his head. A fat man walked with him, a man as fat as Mr. Harrison Combs, the high sheriff. The bandaged head tilted back. The eyes under the bandage looked at Boone, and a flash came into the dark face.
    Boone's hand grabbed for his rifle and bag. His legs shot him over the off wheel. The bag caught on the wheel and pulled out of his hand, the bag with his clothing in it and the Indian-skin strop and the scalp that he had aimed to prove himself by. "Stop! You're under arrest!" He landed running, bowling over a fat woman in a checkered bonnet as he rounded the corner and made in the direction of the river. Behind him he heard the mules snort, heard the wagon clatter and the coffin scrape on the floor boards as the team leaped. He heard voices crying "Whoa! Whoa! Halt!" Above all came Pap's hoarse "Stop him!" and then the sound of running feet, few at first, just a patter of them, but growing with each stride of his own, as if he shook them from the buildings and doorways and walks, out of the quiet tap of business into the pound of the chase.
    He slanted from the sidewalk into the street, hearing the footfalls change behind him, clattering on the boards and fading off into a dull thumping against earth as they slanted after him. Up a cross street he caught sight of the mules swinging into a turn, coming toward him now, the old work wagon flying behind them. A little more and they would have cut him off. A carriage came toward him and rolled on by, moving smartly while the man on the seat leaned out and peered at him and the horses arched their heads and snorted.
    It must be a far piece to the river, farther than he had thought. The rifle jolted in his hand; the pouch and horn flapped against him. The air burned his throat as he sucked it in. Pap kept shouting, "Ketch 'im! Ketch 'im!" He looked back and saw them, a half a hundred men on his trail, and he knew how an old coon felt with the hounds singing after him. They would catch him yet, without he dropped Old Sure Shot. They were at the cross street now, along with the carriage that had passed him. While he looked the mules charged out of the cross street.
    He caught one glimpse of them, running hard and wild at the crowd, and heard the crowd's first shrill cries. He brought his eyes around to get his bearings and saw a heavy man in a red shirt jump from a doorway ahead of him and run into the street and stand ready for him, his hands up for the catch. Boone kicked him in the groin, and found his stride again and went on.
    The street crossing behind him was a whirl of animals and men. He saw the mules, lunging away from the hands that reached for their heads. The carriage lay on its side with one wheel off. The men were shouting, darting in to hold the teams. Nearer, the man Boone had kicked was jackknifed, his hands clutching his crotch. Pap appeared out of the crowd, his toweled head shining white. His arms made motions, and his hoarse voice rose. He was running again, and part of the crowd fell in with him, taking up the chase. Boone made himself look away from them, made himself look ahead, made his legs work, striding long and hard while his breath whistled in his throat. He might make it yet, thanks to the mules.
    And then before him lay the Ohio, wide as an ocean. God, what a river! Under his feet the ground went wet and sticky, though the river was still a rifle shot away. Wreckage streamed past him, shaken by his stride, a storehouse tilting crazily, a flatboat overturned and gaping at the seams, drift lodged against the fronts of buildings, in and out of which men moved carrying buckets of mud. A load of new lumber came toward him and ran on by, shining in the sun, glimmering at the pound of his feet, and then the gleaming skeleton of a building going up, from which came the busy